


Into the Mind

by TheNobodyofaSOLDIER



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Will Add More
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNobodyofaSOLDIER/pseuds/TheNobodyofaSOLDIER
Summary: One shots and scenarios for the series "The Evil Within!"





	1. Evening Escape

[Sebastian x Reader]

The muted lights cast a soft, sepia tone over the bar, and mellow jazz mixed with the hums of unintelligible conversation. Slowly, swirling fans permeated grey clouds peppered with the scent of nicotine round the room, blending into the aroma of food being both prepared and devoured. The bottles and glasses lined up behind the bar glistened and sparkle beneath the low lights, and glasses clinked as ice filled their brims and customers jostled them about. You gulped down the last of your drink, the alcohol burning your throat as you swallow, and with a small wave, you ordered your second round.

Ah, just what you needed after a hellish day at work. Pressing your index and thumb to the bridge of your nose, you released a long sigh as if finally unburdening yourself from the troubles of the day. While you prided yourself in your work, certain days you wished nothing more than to hide from it all - from coworkers, your boss, friends, family, _everyone._ You harbored no hatred towards them, but weaved with the threads of responsibilities, requests, and demands of life, they became nothing more than part of the thick blanket suffocating and engulfing you - a pain. A nuisance. Something preventing you from actually enjoying any time to yourself. This place served as a protective shield; a quiet little niche you always enjoyed stopping by after a late shift. Practically a hole in the wall, resting right at the corner of two busy streets, the large window at your side provided a gateway to the outside world: people strolling by, cars hurrying to their destinations, the lights of each residence and lining each streets casting a comforting glow over the busy night owls going their way, a gentle breeze softly carrying colored leaves by the window. Delighting in such a every day scene was a luxury these days, days in which you hardly had time to stop and just simply look around you. When you sat here at the bar, like an observer in a museum, you could appreciate the artistry of your hometown and nature encircling it.

After breaking from another trance, you returned to the now refilled beverage and took another swig. Finally, a haze settled over your mind ever so slightly, and you hummed in contentment. From this point on, any trace of negative emotion would be sure to drift away before the night was over. Your body slumped, inching its way to the glass surface of the counter. 

How cool it felt on your cheek...

Maybe if you closed your eyes, you could nap, just a little....

Drift away to a peaceful dreamland...

Where no one but you resided and-

“One for me,” you heard a deep voice say. 

Causing you to jump, a rather large figure swiped the seat next to you, threw his coat over the back, and propped his chin atop his folded hands. As you examined the stranger disrupting your peaceful stupor, your heart raced, and the tips of your cheeks and ears reddened.

A suggestion of stubble lined his angular jaw, and dark hair framed his face. Hints of lines curved at the tips of his brows, forehead, and cheeks, not necessarily pointing to his age, but to experience and maturity. Despite his refined attire, dark pants, a vest, suspenders, you noticed brown stains along his once white sleeve - dirt? Oxidized blood? You spotted his gun holster attached to his belt. A police officer? No, he wore no uniform persay. He showed an ID to the bartender, so a detective perhaps? Secret agent?

The mystery in his appearance alone allured you along with his general appearance? And gracing you with his presence? Simply an added bonus to an already fine evening.

“And you’ll have?” the bartender inquired. 

For a moment, he rubbed his chin, brows furrowed, as he mused over the options. Much to your surprise, he gestured to you.

“Whatever she’s having.”

Finally, you comprehended the reality of the situation, and the flush in your cheeks counteracted that cold temperature of the counter. Clearing your throat, you slowly rose and took another drink, feigning as best as you could that you...meant to do that. 

Of course. 

You meant to do that. It was part of the act.

Sliding your fingers through your hair and adjusting your clothes, you folded your arms over your chest, attempting to appear....thoughtful? Aloof? Coy? Mysterious? Was it working? He probably noticed you looking at him earlier...Was he buying it? You heard the tinkling of the ice and liquid filling his glass, so you very discretely, very smoothly, stretched your arms over your head and used this opportunity to peek over. His fingers balanced his crystalline cup loosely between his fingers, occasionally swirling the deep, amber fluid. His deep, dark eyes seemed glazed over, lost in a yawning cavern of thoughts, too vast to follow into. Despite the hardness of his face, a film of sadness ghosted over his features; a slight hunch in his shoulders, his chin slightly tucked, a glimmer of mist ringing his eyes....the golden band circling his ring finger...

Your heart sunk a little.

Too good to be true. 

You weren't that lucky...

Considering the dirt on his clothes, he must work a difficult job. However, no woman accompanied him. Was he having problems at home? Divorced? Perhaps even, widowed?

“Enjoying the view?” he suddenly said, without even glancing over in your direction.

You blink, and your racing heart practically tripped over itself. 

When he turned to you, he chuckled at your wide-eyed expression.

"Gotchya, didn't I?"

No, no! You didn't plan for this! 

_Keep it cool,_ you thought to yourself.

With a click of your tongue and roll of your eyes, you shifted in your seat and replied,

"What? I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

Snickering a bit, he took another swig of his beverage.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" he folded his arms over his chest and leaned into the rim.

You flinched as if an arrow pierced your heart. Biting your lip, you lowered your head, silence being your only reply. Work became your primary relationship, leaving you little time to interact with humans except on a very basic level. You wanted to go out more in hopes to find the "special someone" anyone and everyone dreamt of. 

Time just...always seemed to escape you. 

_Not this time..._

After clearing your throat, you grasped your drink and rested your cheek in your hand.

"I'm a bit rusty," you said. "Work's been my priority these days."

Slowly, the humor in his face melted away, and for a moment, he turned back to his drink, gulping the rest of it down.

"Another one."

_Great._ You opened a wound. Just when you thought you could whip out your lure and appeal, you went and ruined everything. You should have stayed home as originally planned.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Just as panic bubbled in your chest, he plainly stated,

"Sebastian."

"Wh...what?"

Taking his refill, he granted you a small smile.

"Name's Sebastian."

Silently, you breathed a sigh of relief. 

_Keep it going. You got this._

"Nice to meet you," you replied after giving yours.

"The pleasure's mine."

No words were spoken as the music controlled the moment, draping a curtain of ease and peace with its mellow tune. All of a sudden, everything seemed so much better: the drink richer, the lighting softer, the pieces of your confidence put back together. Clinging to this sensation, you wormed your way into conversation with him, nothing too deep or drastic. Just a light-hearted chat. He was so down to earth and honest, not afraid to speak with a touch of crudeness every now and then. But, you liked that about him; it meant he more than likely avoided bullshit. He spoke little about his detective work or his past, but how could you fault him? You left your messy life drama at the front door.

This was an escape from all that. 

Obviously, he was here for that same escape. 

Evening flowed into night, and night flowed into the early hours of the morning. Here, you found his lips practically engulfing yours, and your fingers knotted in his hair. His hands gripping your waist, you felt his fingers almost dig into your skin as he pulled you closer. So intense. So _hungry._ He must have released all that repressed stress into this moment - and you loved every second. In fact, fire surging through your body, your pulling him to you, biting his lip, all pointed to a craving for the same contact.

You pulled away just for a moment to breathe, but his lips still trailed down the line of your throat. You swallowed in attempt to hold back a whimper and managed to whisper,

"Do you....wanna take this somewhere less public?"

Suddenly, he stopped as did your heart for a second. He looked at you with half-lidded eyes filled with lust, ruminating your request. Your stomach knotted. It was another risk, but one you were willing to take, but the longer the silence dragged on, the more your nerves bundled.

Until, finally, he replied with a smirk,

"Your place or mine?"


	2. Evening In

[Drunk!Sebastian x Drunk!Reader]

"Heeeeeeey...hnnn....it tickles."

"Awww, come ooooon."

"No."

After continuing to blow in his ear despite his protests, you resorted to clapping his cheeks between your hands and touching noses with him. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest.

"Pushy..."

"Heeeee. Heeeee. Maybe a little."

Finally, surrendering to your rather sloppy acts of seduction, he slinked his arms around your waist and pulled you in for a slow kiss.

It all seemed so surreal...

Your consciousness seemed completely detatched from your body, and you quietly watched your actions from afar. Yet, you still sensed the heat coursing throughout your limbs, the tingling in your cheeks, the roughness of his stubble against your skin. One more drink, and you were doomed to fall rock hard into sleep or shuffle to the nearest toilet and eject everything you consumed that night.

Sebastian suffered a similar fate: the slurring, the flush coating his face, the glazed eyes, the...unusual amounts of honesty, and of course, the magnetism your body seemed to develop for his hands. Not that you were one to talk as your palms seemed glued to him the entirety of the evening.

In the midst of your kiss, an invisible wave of dizziness engulfed you, very lightly swaying you. With a hum, he pulled away only enough to catch a breath, still keeping light contact with your lips, only to bring you down on top of him and continue where you left off.

"Hmmm, you're heavy," he grumbled against your mouth.

"Mmmmm, don't say thaaaat," you replied with a bite to his upper lip. "It'll make me cryyyyy."

"Pffffffft, dun you cry anyway?" rough, calloused hands crept under your shirt, lightly dragging them up the length of your spine, sending goosebumps along your arm. "Big baby."

"Pffffshhhhh, dunbe mean, m'kay?" you trailed kisses down his neck while your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. "Hnnnnn, why aren't they workiiiiing?"

"Told ya," he mumbled as he tugged at your shirt only to have it catch at your elbows. He pulled and pulled again but to no avail. "Mmmmffff, fuck. Stupid - urrrrrg."

"Hee. Hee. Heeeeee," you giggled in a drunken stupor at least managing to remove one whole sleeve of his. "Oh my, soooo sexy."

He failed to pick up on your sarcastic tone - probably due to your incessant chortling - and continued to growl into the crook of your neck. You errupted into peels of laughter and feigned protest, lazily wiggling in his arms and batting his chest. The more you moved, the more your heart raced, gradualluly pounding into your ears. Levels of energy dropped faster than an anvil on a cartoon's head with every twitch and turn. As if your soul tactically withdrew from your body once more, you fell limp on top of him, and you released a moan that would terrify the residents of hell itself. In fact, his grunts and your whine composed a melodic, intoxicated symphony that would curdle the blood of any bystander. Arms still latched around you, he rested his chin on your shoulder before releasing a long, drawn out sigh.

"Hngggnnn, fuuuuuuuuck," he murmured as his eyelids started to droop. "Soooo tirrred..."

With a rather loud yawn, you replied, nuzzling his chest,

"Meeee toooooo.....maybe...." somehow, you managed to raise your head enough to see his red and puffy eyes. "Maybe....tomorrow?"

"We're gunnabe sooo....fuckin' hungover tomorrow....," he yawned.

"Ugh, I knowww...at least....itzthe weekeeeend...."

He slightly pursed his lips and lazily traced circles around the small of your back. His heartbeat sent vibrations across his chest and trembled against your cheek. You couldn't help but smile a little bit. Right here, in his arms, was where you found the most peace, the most comfort. Whether on the couch with a headache tearing your skulls apart, or out in front of the station kissing him after returning from a dangerous case,

even with your stomach twisting and the repeating, rapid rhythm raging throughout your body, you managed a smile.

"Heeey," you practically stroked his entire face. "At least.....we'll be...together."

He must have heard you. He most likely heard you, because a slight smirk touched his lips before he rested his cheek against your head. The flaming lust you overtaking you before was replaced with a evenly, simmering warmth.

Intoxication may have possessed you two, thus completely derailing your steamy romance for the night.

But, at least, it ended with you in his arms...


	3. Helpless

[Suicidal!Joseph x Reader]

"Joseph! I'm home!" you called, yanking off your hat and scarf, peppered with snow. 

With a click and a turn of the key, you locked yourself within your apartment's warm embrace, stinging your reddened, frigid skin. Shaking the remaining flakes sticking to your hair and shoulders, you set your groceries on the nearby counter and stretched your limbs over your head. You released a loud but satisfying exhale. After a long day, you wanted nothing more than to prop your feet up with some food, hot chocolate, and snuggled up to your favorite person in the world. For the first time in months, your husband, Joseph, received some time off from his demanding job at the KCPD. 

While you endlessly supported him, you admitted you desperately craved his company. Just as his partner, Sebastian, always said,

"It feels like bailing out of a boat with a giant hole in the bottom. For every crime we solve, it seems that ten others are committed." 

You tended to live with blinders just to ease your own anxieties, but you knew it was true. Sebastian and Joseph worked within the bowels of the city, the deep underbelly citizens chose to ignore. They dealt with unimaginable horrors the average person only witnessed behind a screen or in a book. Some days, you hated it; the multiple missed calls, going to bed alone, watching him fall asleep at the dinner table, always home late. 

But, it was worth it.

Every hug, every kiss, every conversation, every act of kindness made it damned well worth it. If you just remembered to love him, live your life, enjoy your time together with him, you could keep the waters of worry at bay.

After setting your groceries on the slick counter of your kitchen, you shouted,

"I know I got held over at work later than normal, so I thought about just ordering take out," you pulled out your cell phone, anticipating a reply. "Pizza? Chinese? Whatchya hungry for?"

Nothing but the, hum of the heater answered your words.

Your heart sped up a little as each second ticked by. 

"Joseph?"

Still nothing.

You bit your lip, attempting to suppress an irrational wave of panic. He was always so responsible about alerting you of any changes, but he never said anything about leaving. He never said anything about coming home late. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glanced at your phone and flipped through your calls and text messages from him: nothing new.

"Joseph?" you called, voice breaking, and searched the office, the living room, the guest room. Why would he not reply? "Joseph? You home?"

Just as you touched the handle to your bedroom, a tired "I'm here" answered your question.

"Give me a minute," he said.

"Thank goodness..." you muttered. 

You gave little thought as to why he took so long to respond. Maybe he was changing clothes or cleaning a mess, so you just stepped on inside.

"Joseph, I wanted to ask what you..."

Your words trailed off into a dumbfounded silence. 

Crumpled pieces of paper scattered about the floor, the bedside lamp illuminating the room, Joseph anxiously gathered the trash, cheeks glinting under the warm light. He looked at you, frozen, analyzing your moves, anticipating some sort of reaction. 

Truth be told, you only stood with your lips slightly parted and breath hitched in your throat. 

A tsunami of emotion barreled over you, as your shocked mind attempted to fully process what happened. Functioning practically on autopilot, you shuffled to his side, but just as you reached for pages tainted with black, he quickly snatched it before you could blink. 

Not that it mattered. 

You expected something like this would happen...

Joseph's worst enemy, his greatest foe, faced him every day in the mirror, followed him at his heels, whispered in the back of his mind. It scrutinized his every move. It recorded his every decision, and if one so much crossed his morality or standards for himself, it would haunt him until he eventually spiral downhill...and at times, broke him into a million pieces.

You tried so hard to cheer him, talk to him, remind him of everything that made him a good detective, everything you loved about him.

_Had you failed him...?_

Your worst nightmare played before you within the realms of reality.

_You must have failed..._

Your chest ached so much, breathing proved to be more of a chore than a necessity. Licking your lips and body trembling nonstop, you inhaled slowly.

"You...didn't manage...I-I mean...did you...?" but your throat clenched, preventing another sound from escaping.

He turned his head away from you, fingers curled against his thigh.

"No..."

You at least managed a sigh in relief.

At least....you came in time before.... 

_No._

_Don't go there..._

You reached for the small, wired trash bin at your bedside and set it in the space between you two. Finally, you glanced up at him as he dropped the remains of his attempt one by one. It was so surreal, seeing him reduced to this state. Only in your worried frenzies did you ever picture this, but to see it before you...no words existed to describe what you felt.

Anger for scaring you like this? For letting himself be controlled so? No, not entirely that. While you despised the selfish nature, you knew his mind grew into an uncontrollable beast, leaving him powerless. Everyone would at some point fall to the power of their emotions. Maybe anger for withholding such crucial information from you? Maybe...

Horror for what would have happened had you been too late? Possibly do it again? That he would Yes, definitely. The images burrowed themselves into the front of your mind, refusing to give you rest, refusing to leave you be.

Sorrow? 

Yes, absolutely. 

Sorrow for him. Sorrow for what he went through, what the pressure of his job put him through, what he put himself through, the high levels of responsibility, the amount of death and crime he encountered on a day to day basis. While he left his work at the door, you couldn't imagine what wandered through his mind during moments of silence and solitude.

However, the deepest wound you identified, the agonizing pain dominating your entire being was the utter, complete _helplessness._

You couldn't magically heal him.

You couldn't force him to get help.

So, what could you do?

Were you helpless in this?

As you finished cleaning the floor and watched him, head hanging low with pieces of his black hair shadowing his face, his body limp, back against the foot of the bed, tears still dripping onto the lenses of his glasses, you grimaced at the pain clawing into your chest.

You loved him so damn much, yet you couldn't save him from this monster.

Not this time...

This was one he had to fight himself.

At least...if he had the will to...

Finally, he gulped and cleared his throat. His voice remained breathy, as if holding back a sob.

"I...offer my sincerest apologies...I don't know what came over me."

Your eyes burned, and throat constricted. You simply nodded, then you clutched his hand hard. Just the warmth of his calloused skin against yours was enough to ground you again.

He was here.

He struggled, and he won, even if it meant hanging only by a thread.

His dark, soulful eyes widened with surprise, as you smiled at him.

"I'll forgive you if you promise to get some help on this, okay?" then, you brought his hand to your lips and kissed it. "Please, Joseph..."

Once more, he lowered his head, shoulders trembling. Just as you reached out to touch his arm, with a short breath, he inched a little closer to you, wrapping his arms tightly around your shoulders. Almost immediately, you latched your arms about him and buried your face into the crook of his neck. You wanted so much just to break into hysterical sobs, but feeling his slim, strong form against you, his heart beat in time with yours, peace settled over you. 

He was here in your arms.

That was all that mattered. 

"I will," he whispered against the shell of your ear. 

"You'd need it to do your job properly anyway..."

"But...what about you....?"

You smiled, tiredly, but still smiled all the same. 

"Just long as I have you in my arms by the end of the day, I won't care," you managed at least a weird, exhausted giggle "I personally can't make it magically go away...but I love you, and I'm always here for you..."

"You certainly give out the best hugs," then, a tiny smirk touched the corners of his lips.

Your heart soared, despite its pain, despite the shock it endured. 

If you could give him a little something to smile about, no matter how silly or stupid, maybe you weren't so helpless after all...

Taking his warm, reddened cheeks into your hand, you planted a chaste kiss to his mouth and then pulled him to his feet. 

It suddenly hit you how precious every moment was.

You just didn't realize how precious until it all vanished before your eyes...


	4. Spark

[Injured!Stefano x Nurse!Reader]

I>"The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's claim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things."

You smiled as you removed the soiled, latex gloves from your hands, only to grab another pair from the box stuck to the wall. The low drone of the vitals monitor and the hum of the television set filled the space of his ponderous pauses, as he assembled his thoughts. Occasionally, he winced ever so slightly, but not enough to warrant any concern. As you turned to soak a few patches of gauze in saline, he spoke again:

_"The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault."_ as the words fell from his lips, your mind slowly drifted away from the monotony of your task to his voice. _"Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty."_

"Oscar Wilde, huh?" you bunched a few of the tiny dressings in your hand and turned back to your smiling patient.

"Ah, what refined taste you have."

You clipped back strands of hair from the perforated wound, oozing in his right eye socket: red flowed through the vessels round the torn socket, and coloring the skin. Somewhere, concealed by the pool of aqueous humor and blood hid a piece of that dreaded shrapnel, teetering between his optic nerve and a cushion of shredded tissue. 

Never again would this eye ever perceive the light of day, and for an artist, it was a wound far more crippling than even paralysis. 

You masked a grimace as you carefully rubbed away the dried blood. The smell of alcohol and iron wafted into your nose as you peeled away bits of scab and necrotic skin. Despite the frequent eye wounds you encountered, something about their nature still made your skin crawl and blood curdle. It was such a sensitive organ, a tiny hair lightly tickling the sclera could leave one groaning in agony. Visualizing a piece of metal burrowing itself down to the retina would make anyone cringe.

But, as a nurse, you could show no disgust nor discomfort. You wore a mask of complete tolerance and composition with every patient, no matter how revolting the smells, horrifying the wounds, or disgusting the circumstances. 

The remaining eye of the unfortunate, young photographer squeezed the more pressure you applied. Shockingly, he grunted only a little, then relaxed as he adjusted to your deliberate touches.

"Sorry, did that hurt too much?" you asked, recoiling just enough to remove any sensations of compression.

With a shake of his head and a wink, he replied,

"Not at all. Continue as you were."

"You sure? It's always best if you're a hundred percent honest with me about any procedure performed." 

"I promise, it is nothing unexpected," he folded his arms over his chest and shut his eye. "Please continue."

Before you proceeded with your work, you watched the muscles in his face relax, and his breathing steady to a slow rise and fall. You couldn't help but admire his strength. Compared to the constant but understandable myriad of screams, shouts, and cries from patients within the wound care facility, he merely winced, whimpered at most. Be it his pride or his nature, whatever kept him grounded, you envied that. 

With a gentle smile, you finally inquired,

"On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?"

After releasing a long, labored sigh, he recovered his charming guise once more. 

"Not enough to wipe away my smile, but enough to commence my creative processes."

After packing the saline drenched gauze, you managed a thin laugh and ripped off a strand of the dry bandage on the bedside table. 

"I'm not even gonna ask, but I like your spirit, Mr. Valentini."

His blue eye glinted as you situated yourself at his side, carefully ambulating his head to a comfortable position and started wrapping.

Such a beautiful, pale blue, much like a clear winter sky on a cold morning. As the rays of the golden sun intruded through the small window, it illuminated the warm highlights of his messy, oily hair and the sweat and crusted blood clinging to his cheeks. Bruises and cuts peppered unbandaged skin. Despite a long week of recovery, he resembled a brutally beaten ragdoll with only the seams holding it together. He watched friends literally explode into pieces, enemies shoot down his brothers-in-arms. He captured images of death and destruction. He immortalized humanity at its absolute worst with vision and a camera. To top it all off, his career as an artist would more than likely come to a screeching halt because of his injury neither you nor the doctors could repair.

So, what drove him to smile with these ghosts forever to wander through the corridors of his mind? What kept the sparkle in his eye when the horror of war left its companion so mangled? 

"Tell me, dear nurse," the rumble in his whisper derailed your train of thought, and you reverted your attention to him once more. 

"Yes, Mr. Valentini?"

A strange blanket of silence covered you both for a moment, and a dark, almost menacing aura cast over the man like a shadow in moonlight as he smiled. Your stomach clumped with the rest of your nerves as your neurons fired small, warning signals. Perhaps it was the broadening of his grin, perhaps the narrowing of his eye, perhaps it was the shadows cast by his hair, deepening the hollows of his cheekbones and heightening his sharp, angular features.

You knew not why, but you learned to always trust your gut, even if little reason presented itself.

Still, you glued your impassivity to your face, like a true nurse.

"Do you believe that beauty exists even in death or destruction?"

You shook your head just a bit, almost as though your brain glitched in attempt to process the question. That one phrase, that one simple question drove its claw quickly into the forefront of your mind. Amongst all the objective data needing immediate documentation, this rang the loudest, itching for an answer, or at the very least a bit of pondering. Darting your eyes to the computer resting upon the table, you jerked it over and pulled up your chart. The weight of his gaze scrutinizing your every move sent a shiver down your spine, yet you refused to crumble. With a small cough, you spoke, 

"Your wound has considerably improved since your first day of admission," the keys clacked as you typed. Perhaps you could distract him long enough until your departure. "I'll need to change your IV bags as soon as this drip finishes, but the green drainage is finally gone, and the swelling has reduced immensely."

With a slow exhale, he folded his arms over his chest. 

"Impressive aversion technique, dear nurse," he brushed his hair from the fresh gauze and tape. 

You blood went cold, and you swallowed the hard lump quickly forming in the back of your throat.

"Pardon?"

"Why avoid my question?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

You winced as if a bullet burrowed between your ribs, straight into the apex of your rapidly beating heart. Your brain feebly fished for any kind of reply. Day after day, death visited you through the loss of a patient. Suicide, illness, infection, no matter the attire, its job proved the same: closing their eyes, closing their mouths, wrapping the body, except the wrist with the identification band, cleaning the room, opening the window, completing the final offices. Then, as always, you bore the burden of telling the loved ones of their loss, offering comfort, listening to their grievances and woes.

Was it possible to find anything beautiful within the agony of loss?

Causing you to gasp, you felt a calloused hand clasp your own. When you glanced at your patient, his expression softened. The once rapidly firing nerve fibers slowed the longer you studied his face: the shadows once darkening his face lifted, leaving the calming blue eye and smile you had grown accustomed to. 

Finally, you forced out a tired laugh.

"Sorry," you practically mumbled. "It's an odd question for someone like me."

"Not at all," he said, dragging his thumb along the back of your hand. "It was not very gentlemanly to attempt to pry. Please, attend to your business."

Licking your dry lips, you nodded and rose from the side of the bed. Your mind still reeled as you adjust the wires to his IV and call light, finishing your general routine before sanitizing your hands and reaching for the door handle to leave. 

Suddenly, you stopped in your tracks, eyes fixed forward.

_Beauty in death.. Beauty in destruction...?_

Was this the sort of mindset that fueled the artist on? Seeing the good within the bad?

You snickered to yourself the more you ruminated. Ironically, you gave this advice to many patients, especially those stricken with a chronic or long-lasting affliction.

And naturally, you never listened to yourself.

Closing your eyes, taking a deep inhale, you turned to meet the artist's gaze.

"I believe death holds something worthy of praise," you said. "Look at someone with dementia, someone whose mind slowly loses its function. Look at someone with metastatic cancer, a body losing the fight against a series of foreign invaders," you curled a finger over your mouth. "Death serves as a release for those people. They're released from that suffering....which in turn is good, right?" 

He simply nodded and tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.

"Even when the family grieves for those losses," again, you remained silent, carefully piecing together your words. "At least, you see the amount of love spent on that person," you smiled slightly and put a hand on the back of your neck. "I never really thought of it that way, but....I guess you can find something good in something as tragic or horrible as death."

Much to your surprise, your words were returned with a nod of approval. For the first time in a while, a little pride swelled in your chest.

"Astute observation, dear nurse," he replied. "Not what I expected, but I'm pleasantly surprised."

You chuckled and pushed a lock of hair behind your ear. 

"Well, it's a good question," you shrugged. "I just needed a little time to think. It's not an easy topic....especially when you're exposed to it often."

"Certainly, certainly," finally, he settled back in his bed and closed his tired eye. "Perhaps we can...converse on the matter another time."

You watched his muscles relaxed, and his chin tucked to his chest. As peace washed over him, once again, that devilish smile returned to his lips. Immediately, your blood ran cold, and your stomach knotted. 

_Why did he hold such an obsession...?_

_Moreover, why drag you into it...?_

Before your mind could wander any further, you straightened your back, returning to your professional state. 

"Just press your call light if you need anything."

With a quick sanitization, you switched off the light and slipped through the door, anxious to be rid of that feeling as quickly as possible. You had too full a schedule to be distracted with needless worries.

Even after the door clicked shut, the young artist remained still in his bed, listening for the echoing thump of your shoes to disappear down the hall, into the myriad of beeps and murmurs from the gossiping staff. Once the hospital's muffled, monotonous drones settled over, his eye flicked open. His smile broadened. Slowly, his new fire of creation consumed what was left of the naïve, eccentric photographer he once was.

"Goodness in tragedy," he mused. "Beauty in death."

The more he thought, the stronger his determination grew.

"I believe you're onto something, my dear, little nurse..."


End file.
